


the thing about trust

by syntheticvoiddoll



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Bondage, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Gift Fic, Jealousy, M/M, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Possession, Punishment, Rough Oral Sex, Sadism, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Violence, Spike Modifications (Transformers), Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, Valve Fingering (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28312419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syntheticvoiddoll/pseuds/syntheticvoiddoll
Summary: Ratchet has to re-educate his pet.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Kudos: 8





	the thing about trust

**Author's Note:**

> super duper mind the tags on this one, folks
> 
> this is actually a super late birthday gift. lol, uh. enjoy?

When his systems onlined again, it was dark. No, wait -- almost indifferent errors floated by from his optics. They were manually turned offline. Whatever had been in his energon must’ve been strong, because Drift actually panicked for a moment. That led to a different discovery: he was bound. Arms above his helm, pedes spread apart. And then he realized how familiar this felt and activated his vocalizer. “Ratchet?”

His voice was scratchy and threaded with static. How many boosters…? He’d lost count; he always overdid it with Rodimus. The young prime liked seeing him higher than the stratosphere for some reason. Not that Drift had any complaints. Rodimus drank, and he boosted, and they fragged. And then…

The details were becoming hazy. But he _did_ remember coming back to the medibay, drinking coolant to soothe his overtaxed systems… and there had been energon left out for him. So he’d drank that, too.

Drugged. Of course. “Ratchet?” he called again. “I’m sorry I broke curfew, I -- ”

Electricity zapped through his circuitry, cutting him off with a cry of pain. So Ratchet _was_ here and not observing him from afar. Drift gasped for cool air, trying hard to bring his temperature back down from the shock. And then, finally, Ratchet’s voice: “It’s not that you continue to break curfew, it is the state you are returned in.”

Drift was quiet. “I get that you don’t like Rodimus, but -- ”

“But _you_ do,” Ratchet hummed. “And I’ve been kind and generous, and I’ve shared. But I can’t have you staggering back here practically burnt out on cheap circuit boosters. All dented and scraped…” Drift heard him cluck his glossa as electricity buzzed against his EM field, a threat tingling against his plating. Drift swallowed hard as Ratchet’s voice lowered dangerously. “Do you forget to whom you belong?”

Drift’s plating shivered. “No, never,” he replied. Ratchet huffed and there was a shifting sound before electricity burned through him again. Drift bit his lip against a whimper of pain. He could smell burned wires and smoking circuitry.

“That’s right,” Ratchet was saying, and it was getting hard for Drift to keep up with, with the pain and everything _else_ lingering in his systems. “And I am the only one who gets to do any real damage. Why?”

Drift gasped desperately for cool air, but still he answered quickly. “Because you fix me up.”

Ratchet let out a soft purr, and Drift felt the medic’s hand on his plating rather than the buzzing, stinging thing. He sighed, trying to shift into that hand, but his bindings were too tight. Ratchet clucked his glossa again, even as his hand traveled down to palm Drift’s interface paneling. Drift still couldn’t see, but he could imagine Ratchet’s sharp grin as he toyed with the manual release on Drift’s paneling, making the red mech writhe on the table. “That’s right,” he finally said. “And it feels good… doesn’t it?”

Drift shivered as Ratchet bared his interface array. “Yes,” he whined. Ratchet laughed softly, and there was a teasing finger around the lip of his valve. Drift twisted his hips, trying to encourage _more_ , but all Ratchet did was pull his hand away. He must have made some mournful noise because Ratchet chuckled again.

“You just spent all night with the little prime and still you want more.” It wasn’t a question, had no need to be. Drift sighed and twisted in his bindings again. Ratchet touched, only teasing all around his pelvic span, ignoring his quickly warming interface array. Then he moved away again. Drift heard shifting, a little indication of tools changing around, and couldn’t help the shiver that rattled his plating.

When he felt something cold and smooth nudge the entrance of his valve, he jerked instinctively. But Ratchet was undeterred and pushed the slim, cold thing until it pressed against the topmost nodes in his valve and elicited a nasty shudder. Drift’s vents kicked up as he tried to identify _what_ it was, his valve fluttering and contracting around it as though it would give him a clue. It didn’t.

Then, another sharp shock electrocuted the far more sensitive lining of his valve. Drift cried out, arching off the med-slab as he gulped down another panicked intake. The tool inside of him twisted against the tender sides of his valve, and Drift let out another piteous sound. Ratchet growled. “Do you regret your misbehavior?” he rumbled.

“ _Yes,_ ” Drift sobbed. He was immediately shocked again, and he bucked and writhed against the bindings, his plating positively shivering in pain and anticipation of more pain. Once again, he felt Ratchet twist the thing into him and he gasped.

“Not enough,” Ratchet hummed, activating the thing again and making his pet scream. “Not yet.”

And Ratchet continued this way, until Drift was quivering and whimpering on top of the medberth, still sightless, and feeling like his valve was burning. But eventually Ratchet removed the thing from his valve, giving Drift another shudder as even its smooth surface was agony on the raw nodes in his valve -- especially as the heat had dried most of what lubricant had been there.

Ratchet tutted, and soon enough Drift felt fingers around the rim of his valve. He whined. “Poor pet. But you know discipline is the most important facility in our relationship.” Drift could only nod. He did know; Ratchet had spent so much time teaching him.

Drift licked his lips as he felt the fingers withdraw from the tender rim of his valve. All he could do was listen to the sounds of Ratchet picking through whatever tools he had assembled, and that was more torture in itself. Trying to figure out what it was Ratchet had, what he was going to do next…

Suddenly, he felt Ratchet’s fingers return to his valve, but this time they spread something cool and slick around its entrance. Next to how hot the previous instrument had made it, Drift jumped, his intakes hitching. Lubricant? That was what it felt like, and Drift shivered as Ratchet pushed two fingers into his valve, spreading more of the lubricant around. Perhaps it was a medical grade, because it tingled against the singed nodes in an odd way. It was soothing, if but for the actual touch of the fingers spreading his valve wide.

“Do you trust me?” Ratchet purred. The movement of his fingers had become less exploratory, less about spreading that lubricant around, and more like prepping him for interface. Drift arched as Ratchet pushed a third finger into his valve and thrust into him steadily.

“Of course,” he replied instantly. His calipers rippled around those fingers. It still stung, but it was starting to turn around. So good, just the way Ratchet always made it.

Ratchet hummed again, apparently pleased with all of the reactions -- including his answer. He worked at Drift’s valve, slowly building a charge in the red mech’s frame, and Drift could feel an answering one in Ratchet’s, if only from the hot huff of vents against his frame.

And then his hand moved away, and Drift let out a soft sound, but it was lost under Ratchet’s tutting. He felt a hand on his interface array, away from his valve. “Now, none of that,” the medic said. Ah. His spike must have tried peeking from its housing.

More shuffling. Then something pressed over the tip of his spike and keeping it where it was. A mag-lock; Drift was familiar with the feeling. Ratchet typically only let his spike extend when he wanted a display. The medic was fond of modding and tinkering with both their equipment. His valve had been made more durable, able to stretch more and withstand Ratchet’s fancies, but his spike was… almost a decoration.

One that Ratchet didn’t want to indulge right now, clearly.

His over-attuned audios picked up the small hiss of Ratchet’s own panel snapping back. More anticipation. The cushioning of the medberth shifted, pressed in, and Drift felt Ratchet’s EM field snaking over his own as the medic crawled over him. One hand slipped beneath his back, right in the little arc above his aft, as though bracing him while he slowly pressed the length of his spike into the red mech’s already well-used valve.

Drift gasped hotly; even Ratchet’s fingers did not have the same girth to stretch him the way his spike did. “Scrap,” he breathed. Some of the scorching pain from earlier was reignited, despite the cooling lubricant and the touch of Ratchet’s hand which had been _gentle_ for the medic. And Drift couldn’t see the smirk, but he could hear it in the soft chuff of Ratchet’s vents and the little rev in the frame pressed intimately to (and into) him.

Yet Ratchet stayed still, pressed in to the hilt, and Drift knew that he was watching and calculating as always. “How would you like your vision restored?” Drift was quiet at this question, hardly believing his audios. Until the warning growl. “Drift…”

“Please,” Drift said, and it came out a little whimper. But Ratchet enjoyed that as well. And if he needed any more proof that the medic was the most impressive that could be found, it was in how he managed to reach to the medical connections in his helm and reactivate his optics, all with his spike buried deep inside of Drift’s tight, clenching valve. Drift flicked his optic shutters, blinking them rapidly, until his vision feed came into focus. What was first a mass of dark and dim shapes, white blurs in the general shape of Ratchet’s frame, focused into something more familiar. This private, lowlit section of the medical bay. Ratchet’s frame, hunched over him, and Drift couldn’t help looking down their frames and seeing their arrays connected and flush together.

He swallowed and peered back up into Ratchet’s face. The medic lifted the hand back from his helm, stroked his knuckles down Drift’s cheek. “Mine is the face you want to wake up to,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Drift agreed, his intakes kicking up. The static presence of Ratchet’s hot spike simply filling him was incredible, but also driving him mad. All the oversensitivity in his valve had finally pushed over to pleasure, and he so wanted to seek its climax.

But he didn’t dream of pushing Ratchet. Not now.

Eventually, Ratchet braced that hand on the med-berth next to Drift’s helm, and slowly pulled his hips back. The spike’s plating dragged over the previously scorched nodes, which still sang with soreness despite the way being even more slick with Drift’s own lubricants, but they also pulsed with charge. _Frag._ A needy whine left his vocalizer. No one but Ratchet could get him like this.

Ratchet thrust his hips home, making everything in Drift seize up in pleasure with that spice of lingering pain. If the medic had any regard for it, he didn’t show it. Despite his unwillingness to move at first, he was now thrusting in a hard, swift rhythm, and the sounds he wrung from Drift were downright pornographic. And Ratchet didn’t once slow down.

That is, until he sensed Drift right on the cusp of overload, and then he simply held his hips against the swordsmech’s again. One of those piteous sounds left the red mech again, and now it was in pleasure and aborted bliss that his plating shivered with. Ratchet’s vents heaved; it was an obvious struggle for the medic as well, to stop from pounding away until they both reached that height.

“Poor, poor pet,” Ratchet murmured, licking his lips as he traced a hand over Drift’s face again. “But you must remember: who holds your pleasure _and_ your pain?”

Drift shuddered into the berth, calipers flexing and tugging around Ratchet’s spike as though it could convince him to start moving again. He had to reset his vocalizer twice before he got any speech out of it. “You,” he croaked through the static.

Ratchet hummed. “Good,” he said. But then Drift felt a different feeling in his valve and stiffened. It was a slight push against his tightened calipers down the sides, and he knew Ratchet had activated his own personal favorite modification to his own equipment: a few rows of curved barbs, which now hooked into the siding of his valve and scraped painfully as Ratchet dragged his hips back again.

He thrust a few more times into Drift, slowly, and Drift could feel him drinking in every gasp of pain, every confused flutter of his valve around the spike that felt good nudging against his ceiling nodes, but was torment as he pulled back.

There was one last terrible pull of Ratchet’s hips backwards, and then the barbs scraped over the rim of Drift’s valve as he completely withdrew from the red mech’s valve. Drift blinked bleary optics at the dark ceiling of the medibay, his stinging valve clenching on nothing in the sudden absence. His red plating still quivered, at being teased so close to overload with no release. Pain aside, the charge in his systems was incredible, and he simply was incapable of laying still on the berth with it.

Not that Ratchet seemed to mind. If anything, the faint smirk on his lips seemed to show that he liked Drift just the way he had him.

There was a small _snikt_ sound, and when Drift peered down, he saw the barbs flatten back into smooth siding on Ratchet’s spike. Ratchet shifted until he straddled Drift’s chest, giving the mech a _very_ up close view of the modded spike. Ratchet reached down and stroked his jaw. “Come now, pet,” he said. Drift hesitated just a moment, even as Ratchet was relaxing his jaw. The medic tutted. “You just got through telling me how much you trust me, Drift.”

And when Ratchet shifted forward, Drift parted his lips obediently. A more pleased noise from Ratchet, especially as he pushed his spike into the red mech’s mouth. Drift was familiar with this, at least. He knew how to suck and lick over Ratchet’s spike just how the medic liked, and it showed: Ratchet was moaning above him, thrusting unrestrainedly into his mouth. Still, Drift suckled at the spike, even through the discomfort of its head grinding against the back of his intake.

“Come on, pet,” Ratchet gasped again, thrusting hard into Drift’s mouth. “Ah -- _yes…_ ” He hissed as Drift renewed his efforts, and ground a few more times against the back of his fluttering intake, and then Drift tasted the hot spill of Ratchet’s transfuid. The thighs straddling him shivered as Ratchet rode through his overload, continuing to thrust almost lazily until it had abated.

Sighing, sated, Ratchet shifted back again. Drift caught optic contact and didn’t let it go, even as he licked at his lips to make sure he’d missed not even a drop of Ratchet’s fluids. Ratchet purred down at him. Drift’s engines were still throttled high, his frame taught with unresolved charge. Still, Ratchet drew back to settle over Drift’s middle, simply watching him, and seeming to immensely enjoy the the desperate twisting Drift did beneath him.

“Poor pet,” he hummed. One of his favorite refrains. “So worked up. Do you want an overload.”

Drift nodded eagerly, writhing in his bindings again.

Ratchet chuckled. “I can’t hear you…”

A soft whine. “Please… Ratchet, _please_ …”

Ratchet considered him for a long moment. “Well. You’ve done so well for your punishment, so I suppose…” Despite the positive words, Ratchet stood up off the berth and tucked his spike away behind closed panels again. Drift gazed after him almost despairingly, which made the medic laugh again. “Now, it wouldn’t be a punishment if you got everything you wanted, would it?” Drift swallowed and stared up at the ceiling with too-bright optics, his plating feeling like it might rattle right off his frame. “Sshh…”

After cleaning himself, Ratchet approached the med-berth again, reaching up to the wrists bound above Drift’s helm, but he released only one. “I think you can manage with a single hand, right?”

Drift stared at Ratchet, as though unsure. But he was desperate for release, so he didn’t argue. He slipped the freed hand down his frame, hyperaware of Ratchet’s gaze intent on him. Plating twitched again as he touched the abused rim of his valve, but his desire for relief was too great and Drift went on, wincing at the lingering soreness even as he bucked his hips into his own touch.

Drift sighed as he pushed two fingers into his valve, feeling another tingle of pleasure from realizing how closely Ratchet was watching him. The sound of the medic’s fans whirring back to life was a great accompaniment to his own, pumping his fingers faster into his valve, ignoring the painful feedback and instead looking to use even that stimulation towards pleasure and an overload.

He’d learned from the best, after all.

Not much longer did it take Drift to bring himself that high again, to a bliss that nothing Ratchet or Rodimus could dose him with could ever touch. He was lost to everything now, except for the movement of his fingers in his valve and the harsh panting of his ventilation cycles; his optics were shuttered, willingly shutting the sights away now, not thinking of Ratchet any longer as overload crested within him. Backstruts bowed off the berth as he let out a soft cry, energy snapping through the room in a quick flash as the sensation swept him away.

When Drift opened his optics again, came back down to the ground and picked up more on his audio feed than the rush of his own energon and the roar of his vents, then Ratchet was once again that fixture. The medic was panting almost as raggedly as Drift was! Drift hummed, pulling his hand away from his interface array as he gazed up at Ratchet. Waiting.

“What a pretty pet,” Ratchet hummed, lifting a hand to trace over Drift’s plating, which was still blazing hot to the touch. They stayed that way for a while, before Ratchet finally moved to unbind Drift’s other hand and his pedes. “And you took your punishment so well. You may get closed up and cleaned up. One thing, however.”

Drift paused, looking back up at the medic. Waiting again, not knowing if he should dread it or not. But Ratchet merely smiled at him.

“The mag-lock stays on,” he said, gaze flicking to Drift’s still-exposed interface array, and the cap over his spike housing.

Drift nodded. “How long?” He was used to keeping caps over his equipment, or toys in his valve, for specific amounts of time.

But Ratchet shook his helm. “Until I decide to remove it, pet.”

Drift gazed at him with something verging on uncertainty, but he nodded. Agreeing. Like a good little pet. And he finally closed up his panels as Ratchet reached out and stroked over his cheeks again. “You do trust me, Drift.”

Drift smiled. “Of course, Ratchet.”


End file.
